We are Fire. Seven times
we stoke your furnace flames.
We are Lions. This den
is our prey's, not our grave.
We are Dreams, Dreamers, the
Interpretations sure.
Our Rock has stricken your
iron-clay feet, Statue
gold, silver, bronze, iron.
We fed the wind with your
powder carcass. We grow
a Mountain on your dais.
To the trumpets' tune of
your golden image our
Hand will write the lyrics
on plaster, the Awful
Horror in your temple:
Mene. Tekel. Parsin.
Enjoy your seventy
weeks. We, Vessels of the
Sanctuary cast off
but not forgotten, will
soon serve Wrath, aftertaste
of your Bacchanalia.
We thrive on Vegetables
and Water. Birds and beasts
residing in your shade,
partaking in your fruit
shall flee at the angel's
call: sever you to stump.
We are Apocalypse:
open windows, prayers, eyes
set on upon Zion.
The Fourth Man is with us.
Take heed! The message sealed-
we stand to the end-yours.